


like your shoes, love your hair

by palinodes



Category: Roswell New Mexico (TV 2019)
Genre: Canon Disabled Character, Canon-Typical Violence, Child Abuse, Communication, Cuddling & Snuggling, Developing Relationship, Dreams and Nightmares, Emotional Baggage, Fluff, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Kissing, M/M, Mention of Hair-pulling, Mentions of Sex, Not Beta Read, Past Forrest Long/Alex Manes, Post-Finale, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Relationship Discussions, Sex Talk, Slight Dirty Talk, Soft Boys 2k21, Suicidal Thoughts, blood mention, mention of roleplay, sex mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:27:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28496058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/palinodes/pseuds/palinodes
Summary: “I had it that way overseas. But, I thought—” Alex clears his throat and then appears to be very focused on the file in front of him. He clears his throat again and asks, very quietly and a shade unsure, “I thought you liked longer hair?”
Relationships: Michael Guerin/Alex Manes
Comments: 19
Kudos: 117





	like your shoes, love your hair

**Author's Note:**

  * For [frenziedblaze](https://archiveofourown.org/users/frenziedblaze/gifts).



> @frenziedblaze has put up with a hell of lot of Alex's hair-related bitching from me. So, I decided to reward this kindness with more words about Alex's hair. I'm a great friend :) 
> 
> This ignores the bulk of his season two hair because that is not within specs for an officer at ALL. S1? * chef’s kiss * 
> 
> Also: there is a teensy bit, a line or two, of snark regarding Forrest. I am who I am.

Michael would never want to be them. To be human would mean being something he is not. But, he works in tandem with them for the same goals and considers them brothers on the planet, all the same. He didn’t ask to land here, but his mother died to do it. She died to get him to this place. What are the odds that he would sprout just at the right time to align with the human being that would become his most, his only beloved? 

His mother couldn’t have planned a better birthday party if she tried. 

He knows perseverance when he sees it, beasts or not. He read as much history as he could as a child, trying to piece himself into the human context. He thinks of the arenas where men were baited to fight like animals for the pleasure of crowds, foreign ships taking mothers and children, mustard gas, Okinawa, self-immolating monks, hurricanes, the parents of Trayvon Martin. 

If any species has ever come up from the dirt, battered, but grim-faced, fingers beckoning the aggressor to go again, it’s humans. 

Who the fuck was he to scoff in the face of that for all the years he did? 

Because Earth had this absolute ugliness. This cruelty and horrid injustice. And yet, the planet almost pulses with resilience. Michael sees, feels, and tastes this enviable strength in music, in sunrises, and the wonder of all the 391,000 species of tracheophytes. 

Earth made Alex Manes. 

And now, over the past few months, Michael has learned new things about Alex with hunger. He relearns all the old stuff with renewed clarity. 

Michael Guerin is a natural, fast learner when the topic interests him.

He looks up from his notepad, pen between his teeth. His gaze meets Alex’s exasperated face. 

“You didn't hear a word of that, did you? Max is relying on me to narrow down the location to a three mile radius. Don't complain if I accidentally lead him into some sort of Hellraiser-type basement with a portal to alien hell.”

"What if it ends up being a _happy_ Hellraiser-type basement with a portal to alien hell? At this rate, that would be the best-case scenario," Michael quips, lightly hip-checking Liz. 

"Oh, _good_ , grumpy's got jokes," Alex deadpans before walking back over to his computer

Socking Michael on the shoulder, Liz teases, “We need to concentrate, boys.”

He has been watching Alex all night. He knows he was at work all day and hasn't had any break regarding his leg. He made a promise to himself and the desert sky that he would do his best stop Alex from martyring himself for them. So, tonight, he ignores a lesson that he was taught long ago: Alex does not like being told what to do in front of other people. 

“We need to concentrate and Alex needs to go home and get some rest.”

At that, Liz strips off her lab coat. She flees, claiming a need for coffee and air to avoid being front row to a ten-minute long sniping session. 

But, there is no fight. They just return to working in silence. 

The song was everything. One last, good final push from Alex. And it was just _everything_ to Michael. 

But, that rush of adrenaline for Alex petered out almost as soon as it took off. 

Turns out, you cannot will yourself through speed coping with the reality that your brother shot your father to protect you after you had been kidnapped. And after your father was ready to murder you and your lover in cold blood. Pretty tough one to outrun. Relief is a bedfellow of guilt for Alex. 

And if anyone knows, it’s Michael, who has been trying to outdrink or outfight trauma since he graduated high school. He understands how hemostasis can lead to greater injury. How deep the belief that simply stopping the blood from dripping is enough can run. 

A few months on, and endless conversations later, Michael’s ready. He’s been ready. He is so fucking ready, but he doesn’t want to scare Alex off. So, they just keep talking. Michael really likes that. Michael has always wanted to tell Alex everything and he could listen to Alex talk forever. It is such a boon, such a life-affirming realization that no one has ever known him better than Alex and the man never even really had to try. 

Because Alex understands him and when he feels like he doesn’t completely, he tries. Alex has always tried, Michael was just too fucked up to see it. Alex was just too self-hating to force him to see it. 

Alex has been telling Michael about his dreams lately. He says they have amped up since Caulfield, getting stranger and stranger. Michael, himself, doesn’t usually remember his dreams. He often wondered if he ever did. 

They tell each other most things now. 

How Alex’s paternal grandmother had a large print, King James Bible. In its front pages, she had written each of her grandchildren’s names, eye color, and birthdates. The hyphen after waiting like a blade. 

The hard truth that Michael wanted to go back to school, but doesn’t realistically see how he ever could. 

That Forrest Long’s push for public displays of affection—ones lined with vengeance at that— had made Alex very uncomfortable; he was thankful that they only lasted a few dates and that Forrest had stayed his friend. He is even more grateful that he doesn’t feel obligated to compose a scholarly presentation about what sexual position he prefers, complete with citations and a historiography showcasing the evolution of language around it and how maybe his childhood trauma plays in, to prove how gold star gay he is. So fucking grateful. 

Michael had been ten when he was transferred away from a group home he found some solace in. The absence of his peers, particularly the little ones, him like a chemical weapon and left nothing in him. He cried until it hurt to open his eyes and his chest burned and his breath ran away from him. He woke up the next morning and never cried about it again.

As a young adult, Alex tried not to let his father affect his relationship with his brothers. When he was young, they were present and demonstrative. Taught him to never trust strangers, how to soak lentils, how to clean under his nails. One of the things he hates most in his life, more than the sadness, the overwhelming lack of self-worth, the sometimes futility of human experience, is that he feels ashamed of them, of himself. 

Michael empathizes. He still resents Max and Isobel. 

Alex confessed that he was envious of Michael’s unrelenting drive. Sometimes he wakes up in the morning and feels like he has no reason. Not as much as he used to, but he still does every once and awhile. 

They laughed about how Michael could be a jealous monster. And even harder when Alex admitted that he finds it a little hot. 

Michael was afraid that being angry is all he was bred to be. And that perhaps to expect more from him is like being angry with a lion for roaring. It is what it does. Very little reasoning behind it. Alex disagreed. 

They know all this and more and still desire the infinity of each other. 

There was something about Alex that had perplexed Michael since the other man joined the military and he has never had the chance to ask about: his hair. 

An airman's hair may have one (cut, clipped, or shaved) front to back, straight-line part, not slanted or curved, on either side of their head, above the temple. A part cannot exceed four inches in length. Hair must not touch the airman's collar, ears, or protrude under the front band of headgear. Hair has to be kept in a style that does not appear lopsided or make contact with either eyebrow.

Michael knows. He has googled it many, many times. 

These days, Alex is really pushing it. 

Michael looks over and catches Alex just as he is pushing the hair off his forehead for the umpteenth time. Alex’s charming dark strands stand out in contrast to the dewy hue of his skin and cheekbones. It looks soft and clean, with no product in it. A sweet, familiar aroma of sandalwood floats through the lab as he shakes his bangs out of his eyes once again. 

Looking at Alex as he frowns threateningly at his computer screen, Michael cannot help but think of how he wants more of him. Always more. 

He freely asks Alex, because he can just do that now. So, he asks how come Alex never just went with a high and tight. Sure, it would be a little butch for Alex’s tastes, but very practical.

“I had it that way overseas. But, I thought—” Alex clears his throat and then appears to be very focused on the file in front of him. He clears his throat again and asks, very quietly and a shade unsure, “I thought you liked longer hair?”

Not wanting to shout across the lab about it, Michael walks over to the station where Alex is working. He sidles up to Alex, shoving his hands into his jeans pockets, and shuffles his weight from foot to foot. 

“On you?” 

Alex knocks their shoulders together playfully. He gives Michael a short nod followed by a small shrug. 

“Well, yeah, I do. But, what does your hair have to do with me?”

Alex smiles tightly and turns around. He begins methodically packing up his things. He, then, assures Michael that it’s fine. Tells Michael that he was right after all: Alex really should be going, anyway. 

He looks at Alex, again. With clearer eyes than he has in years. He is dressed in dark clothes. His sweater, navy blue with specks of black, fits him a little oddly. It is tight around his middle while being a tad too loose on his shoulders. His hair is soft and puffed up a little from Alex adjusting it to get it just the way he likes. He keeps twitching his nose and biting his lip as he works. It is as if Alex fucking cultivated this look over years of being with him. There was a time when Michael thought Alex knew exactly what it did to him. 

It is strange, alluring, invigorating, and frustrating. Alex’s duality. How he knows how to work the twist of his thighs with the exact timing and tightening to make Michael’s knees buckle and cause a hiccup in his thrusts. He is confident in his doings then. And yet, with the same level of his oncoming certainty, will still hesitate when he goes to remove his last layer of clothing as if giving Michael the chance to decide he does not truly want to see. 

Michael stands, balking, as the realization comes to him slowly. He gently untangles the disbelief in his psyche to make way for the utter elation of the truth, so plain and sweet. Alex kept his hair as long as he could—not as a fuck you to the man—but because he wanted Michael to be attracted to him. 

Alex wanted to look handsome _for him_. 

“ _Oh_ ,” he says stupidly. “Oh, I—”

“It’s fine,” Alex chuckles, a little breathless. “I really should be heading out.” 

Michael confesses quickly, panic boiling in his gut. His voice is a mix of shout and babble that as soon as he got word from Alex himself or through the grapevine that he was coming back through town, Michael would stop shaving everywhere. He would carefully trim the ends of his hair to make sure it was just out of his eyes. He saved the moisturizer that Isobel would give him every Christmas just for when Alex was around. 

“I wanted to look good for you,” he clarifies. 

The ‘too’ is left unsaid. 

Alex’s smile is all teeth, as blinding as it was goofy. Michael moves the final few inches, closing the space between. They are nearly nose to nose. Alex’s fingers find their place upon his forest chest. 

“You’re always handsome.”

Michael huffs looks down self-consciously.

He is all pressed up against Alex’s front. He just wants to tuck himself into his body and never let go. His hands hover around his hips, Alex’s fingers grip his shoulders and pull him even closer. Then, he is rubbing with his thumb the line of skin that revealed itself at the base of his spine where his sweater had ridden up. 

Michael had come to tolerate his body of the years, the self-consciousness of youth wearing thinner with each passing day. The sleek lines of high school were still en vogue, even now. Michael could never get his body to flatten the way he desired. He was broad in some areas, and scrawny in others. “Lopsided” his first foster mother had called him. “Feo,” another foster father would later say while pointing to his nose. And yet, during that summer, after all that pain, Alex straddled him. Ran his fingers over Michael’s taut, but solid stomach. Up and down, scratching at his sides, the grass behind his father’s shed soft and yielding against Michael’s back. 

Alex told him he was built like a Greek statue. Like his own Apollo came to life. 

Michael's whole body had shuddered. 

“You are,” Alex says, willing once again Michael to believe it as he had so many times before. “You’re always handsome. You are the most beautiful man I've ever seen, Michael.” 

Alex leans forward and presses his nose against Michael’s cheek. Michael exhales forcefully, a heavy blush rising in his cheeks, the rise of his chest causes he and Alex to touch even more. He brushes his fingers against the collar of Michael’s navy blue sweater. 

Fall is almost through, winter fast upon them. Alex starts to lament how cold he gets at night. He is flirting with him. He knows how Alex flirts and this is it. 

“It was freezing last night. I dreamt I was speaking to Clay again. And then my father. The wolf came again. We were all in a poppy field that was covered with ice. This time, the wolf was crying.”

Alex had told Michael about this before. The wolf, the field, and the snow were all recurring elements since he was very young. Dreamt of it his whole life and kept waiting for the wolf to come and rescue him. Sometimes he had to save the wolf, most of the time the wolf was saving him, and every once and a while, Alex and the wolf would protect each other. Rarely, Alex was left all alone. 

The last dream he told Michael about found Alex in his old childhood bedroom. The one in the apartment off of Baker Street, next to the tractor supply store. He ran in there after Flint came at him with a taser. The old Phantom Menace sheets were still on his bed. He pulled back the comforter to find parts of a baby spread out just underneath the top sheet. He found the legs and torso, crawled to the base of the bed, and found the head. The parts are fluidless like a doll but warm and pliant like a bairn. He tried to put the baby back together again, but the right hand was gone. The sky was a piercing turquoise. The shade he read about comes just before a tornado hits. The right hand was gone and the boy didn’t have any toenails. 

Alex told him that he called for his mother and then Michael over and over and they never came. He could hear the wolf howling somewhere close, though. 

“This time, dear old dad pushed me down. He punched me in the stomach and gave me that line he would always give me: ‘next time I’ll make you piss blood, boy.’” 

“No, shit,” Michael says with his voice teetering towards wonder. “I had a foster mom who loved that line, too.”

Alex lets out a wounded noise, but Michael waves him off. Tells him that they will talk about it later and keep going. 

“Any trace of pain you have ever received, you didn’t deserve,” Alex says firmly. He continues, “I was ten or so in this one. I landed on an ice pick. The wolf cried these tears of what looked like incandescent light and then ripped off dad’s kneecap with his teeth.”

Michael smiles at that. He leans down to Alex’s ear, tells him he can relate with the hound, and lets out a soft wolf howl. 

Alex’s breath quickens and he stumbles back a bit. 

Michael rushes out that he didn’t mean anything by it, pulling his hands back and putting more space between them once again. At this moment, Michael resents his limitations, impulse control being the best of them at times, and the worst at others. 

Alex gives him a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Oh, okay. It’s okay.”

Michael lets out a frustrated whine. Michael steels himself, hugging Alex again. He sings a few lines of “I Wanna Be Your Dog” under his breath. Alex playfully shoves him away this time. 

“Sorry, I’m not a songwriter like you. I have to rely on covers.” 

“If I think about it, it tracks,” Alex teases. “The wolf has a beautiful, strong snout. His eyes are like yours, his fur is even a little curly, and—” 

“He has a coke bottle dick,” Michael finishes solemnly.

Alex frowns and then laughs, snorting and loud. He trails off quickly into his typical breathy kind of chuckle, pressing their temples together. 

“Yeah, it’s weird I never connected the dots before. He is always trying to sniff my ass.” 

“That checks out.”

“His _eyes_ , though. The way he smells.”

Michael snorts, a touch indignant. 

“He smells good, like you. Like the playground after rain.”

“What age did you start havin’ these dreams again?”

“Six, maybe seven? I’m not sure.”

Michael felt so displaced as a child. Imperfect and ill-placed. Michael hated enclosed spaces. They make him feel confined and put him on edge. His teachers always said that he was claustrophobic. Which, by the very definition of the word (an extreme or irrational fear of confined places), he was. If he didn’t spend enough time outside in the fresh air or an open garage, he felt panicky and tight. As if he were wound in cellophane, making him sweat and struggle. 

Even now, Michael would ask himself if the three of them have been better off if they have landed in Tibet or Northern Alaska? This had always sounded like a dream to Michael. It was just a flip of fate’s coin that he wasn’t somewhere better than Roswell. 

Would they—he and Alex—have found each other even then? He likes to think so. 

Now he has never been so sure. 

The idea, the reality, the painful truth that if they had known each other as young children they maybe could have saved each other no longer feels like a knife in Michael’s gut. It’s a warm light, a sweet dream, a trusted, beautiful fantasy. 

So, they both giggle.

He pats his denim-clad legs twice, grinning. “You gonna c’mere or what?”

Alex falls onto him the rest of the way, gracelessly shoving his hands under Michael’s sweater to rub his back, soothing and perfect. “Maybe we should just stick together then from now on then, you know, for--”

“Protection, yes. I agree.”

“I protect you, you protect me.” Alex touches the pad of his thumb to the swell of Michael’s lower lip. 

“Cosmic,” Michael confidently lilts.

“So fucking handsome,” Alex breathes and leans forward to finally press his mouth to Michael’s. 

Just before their lips touch, one of the lab’s double doors squeaks open. They both turn towards the door and find Liz balancing files, three bags of chips, and a coffee cup in her arms. She cringes apologetically around the huge vending machine cookie in her mouth. 

Alex offers her a shaky wave but doesn’t step back. 

Michael finds himself getting shaky, too. Then, Alex closes his eyes and gives him a kiss, a soft press of lips. More of a caress. But like anything to do with Alex, Michael wants to push and pull and scoop and claw until he can take everything he can. 

“Do you want to come over tomorrow night? I can make us dinner.”

Michael raises an eyebrow.

“I can try and when I fail, I can order food before you get there,” Alex clarifies, rolling his eyes and futzing with the cuffs of Michael’s shirt. 

He sees the hesitance in Alex’s brown eyes and quickly nods, their lips brushing in the narrow space between them. "Yeah, ‘Lex, I wanna," he whispers, entirely content. 

Pulling back, he finds Alex beaming at him. Alex unselfconsciously gives him a wide grin that shows his gum line and nearly all his teeth. It’s Michael fucking favorite sight in the world. Michael kisses him again. Holding onto each other for a few last moments, Alex murmurs how Michael smells so good, ‘like always.’ 

“Text me when you get home, yeah?”

Alex nods and asks him to do the same. 

Watching Alex walk away, Michael is struck with a memory. He has been seeing a lot of Kyle Valenti lately. After Caulfield, Michael did his best to avoid him entirely, but over the past few months that had become more and more difficult. The last time he was in this very lab was with Kyle. They ran into each other in passing. Kyle had patted his shoulder. 

It was odd. 

And then Kyle said, apropos of nothing: “Alex has been watching _When Harry Met Sally_ . He has been watching _When Harry Met Sally_ quite a bit. Thought you oughta know. Anyway, as always, eat shit and die. Good night.” 

That quiet conversation is pinging around like a firefight in his ears when he takes Alex by the hand and guides him back into his space. 

He glances behind him and finds that Liz is being a solid wing lady and has put her headphones in. He can hear the bass thumping from where he stands and when he barks her name, she doesn’t respond. 

Iron is hot, the time is now, carpe diem, make hay while the sun shines. All that bullshit. 

He pulls Alex into another hug and presses his mouth to the cusp of Alex’s ear 

“I love you. I, uh, I’m in love with you, like, a crazy amount.” He cringes. He can hear and feel how heavily Alex is breathing. He fears if he doesn't finish that Alex will cry. He fears that if he does finish, Alex will cry. “Always have. I love you and you’re—you’re beautiful. Beautiful everywhere. Alex, you’re my dream, y’know?” Michael mewls in embarrassment. “I’m sorry I’m fucking this up.” 

Alex pulls back slowly, catching Michael’s eye and shaking his head firmly before diving back into Michael’s embrace. 

Michael feels the “I love you too” against his cheek more than he hears it.

“I know.”

Groaning, Alex pushes him away. “Don’t Han me when you aren’t gonna follow through.”

It was a game they played throughout their relationship. Michael once wore the vest, even. But, it had been a long time. The thought makes Michael's chest ache in a painful, but exciting way. 

“Follow through, huh?” His voice is low and husky, leaning so close that their lips are brushing, he promises, “I can arrange that. You could use a good kiss.”

“No,” Alex’s voice is demanding like one would scold a dog, before growing more serious. “Please, I’ll cry. Honestly.”

He presses his hand against Alex’s chest, right where his heart is. It hasn’t been so long, he wonders, that he has looked at him from here. “Then we’ll do it real quiet-like, my prince.”

Burying his face with his arms, Alex exhales. Hiccupped and stilted, a telling breath. 

There is an illusion, wrought by stereotype and ignorance that Alex is stoic. That he is a steel trap. He is always in control, a masculine, unyielding avatar of a person. This holds some truth, but the other reality is that Alex has always been a crier. Out of uniform, especially. 

After Caulfield, and the mess with Helena, and then his brothers and the death of his father, Alex cries a lot easier. 

Michael does, too.

“Oh, shit. No, no, no. I didn’t think you would actually cry.” 

Alex swipes at the fat, but sparse tears on his cheeks and works at flattening down Michael’s shirt collar. A dance, a ritual over a decade old now. Michael knows all the steps. He yearns for the dance. 

When Alex tells him seriously and with no trace of sarcasm that they were happy tears, Michael sighs. Pressing his increasingly sweaty forehead to Alex’s, he says, “Still don’t ‘ike it.” 

“Do you want to come over now? Tonight, I mean.”

Alex’s lips are part, his eyelashes fluttering. He is puffing out his chest to make his shoulders look as wide as possible. If Alex was flirting before—and he was—he is turbo-flirting now. If he went to Alex tonight, he is essentially guaranteed to get one of Alex’s nice, slow, devilish blowjobs. At least. He could slide his hands into that appetizing hair they were just discussing and tug and grip and Alex would moan around him. 

His dick is already twitching in pants. 

“I’ll see you in the morning,” he says through clenched teeth, shuffling a little from foot to foot and trying to subtly press a hand down on his growing erection once Alex is across the room. 

Alex looks resigned but relaxed as he says goodbye to Liz. Slowly walking towards the door, Alex stops and grips the doorframe. He is looking right at Michael when he says, “I love you.” 

Michael opens his mouth to reciprocate as loudly as he can, when Liz sing-songs with her back still turned as she plugs in a hot plate, “Love you, too. Bye, babe!”

His eyes snap over to glare at her, just in time to see her wink. Michael half-growls before looking back to the door, half-expecting for Alex to have fled in embarrassment.

Instead, he still stands in the doorway, gripping the frame a little tighter, favoring his good leg. His eyes watering, his lips wobbling and trembling. Alex takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, and visibly counts to ten. His eyes are even redder when he opens them back up. 

Michael mocks wiping tears and then waggles his finger in a ‘no’ gesture.

It is fruitless, though. Tears are already slowly making their way down Alex’s cheeks, catching in the crease of his beaming smile. Michael hates it. He hates that Alex is crying again. Alex bids him one last good night so quietly that the sound barely reaches Michael’s ears. Then, Alex shrugs and laughs, a little breathless and frantic. Clutching at his heart, swaying a bit on his feet as he makes his way out of the door. 

The door closes and Michael is nearly crying himself. 

It is only a few beats before he spots Liz dancing over to him. Swaying her hips and pumping her arms. Michael does his best to not be charmed. 

“So, how much did you hear?” he asks, sounding casual and feigning returning to his chemicals. 

“Eve 6 drown out everything but the last bit. Scout’s honor. I am trying this whole minding my own business thing.” She strips her gloves off and squeezes herself into her side. “But, fuck it, dude. I’m happy that you’re so happy.” She fakes swoons before righting herself and declaring with glee, “Mikey, I didn’t even know Alex’s face could _do_ that.”

Wrapping her arms around his shoulders, she presses closer. 

She tells him it was like magic or something. 

* * *

Michael’s phone buzzes alerting him to a new text in the group chat. Kyle says he is running late and will pick up Maria on his way over to the Crashdown. 

“Whoever suggested meeting at 5 am should be shot,” Isobel deadpans and then takes a very unladylike swig from her mug. 

“Sorry. Someone beat you to that long ago,” Liz says.

“Whatever.” 

The bell over the diner door rings and Arturo crows, “Alex, mijo, come here, come here. I must show you something. Big news!” 

He leans over in the booth and sees Alex. The sunlight shining at his back, he dressed in jeans and hoodie with his leather jacket pulled tight across his chest. He has a thumb ring on. His hair is windswept and gorgeous and as long as he let it be because he knows Michael likes it that way. 

Michael is gonna die. 

He unconsciously unbuttons his green plaid down to just below his pecs before he smells his armpits and fingers. He scrubs his fingers through his beard before adjusting himself into the booth, trying to appear cool and casual. 

Alex’s smile is small and gentle and so pretty when he waves at him. He mouths a quick, “hi,” before giving Arturo his undivided attention. 

His phone vibrates, three more times. Figuring it is the group chat popping off again, Michael digs into his pocket to grab it and swipe the notification away. He sees it is a message from Kyle to just him. 

> **Dickhead:** Alex called me last night. Nice moves, dude. 

Followed by a wall of thumbs-up emojis and then, 

> **Dickhead:** I mean this sincerely btw. 
> 
> **Dickhead:** Still hate you, though, bud. Obviously. 

His belly is all warm. He feels that his feet have gone a bit numb. He knew Alex had been happy with their reconciliation. But to know for certain that not only was he happy, but so much so that he felt good enough to call Valenti and tell him about it was something else. 

In high school, Valenti had once left a cut on Alex’s cheek and for that, he will always hate the bastard, whether Alex has forgiven him or not. 

But, man, Michael never fathomed that a text from Kyle Valenti could make him feel this fucking good. 

He is secure enough to admit to himself that he is preening. He futzes with the food and drinks for the fifth time and Max mocks him, lightly. 

“Michael is working toward getting ASE Certified,” Isobel offers, apropos of nothing. 

Max gives a hearty, brotherly cheer at that. 

He jolts, nearly elbowing the cola he ordered for Alex and his own coffee all over the table. 

“Isobel,” he hisses, righting the glasses and silverware. He hadn’t even told Sanders or Alex yet. 

“I’m so excited and I’m… proud of you, dude!” Max chuckles, slapping him on the shoulder twice. Max then, in the most obvious manner ever, looks over at the counter. Alex is stretched as far as his body can manage across the aluminum countertop to look at whatever Arturo is excitedly holding and nodding along. Max is grinning as he turns back to face Michael and says, “About everything. I know you don’t care about that, but I just wanted to tell you.”

Dropping his head into his hands to hide his embarrassment, Michael groans. 

Standing and pulling a chair from the next table over to place at the end of their table, Max gives Alex one last look. He is smirking when he turns back to his siblings and stage whispers, “I’m gonna pretend to go to the bathroom now.”

Michael shoves him a few feet back with some help from his powers. Max grins and dives headfirst into the booth, shoving Michael’s face towards the tabletop.Michael grouses and flails, he play-rough, familiar feeling of Max’s knuckles digging into his scalp. 

Pushing him off finally, Michael gruffs while fixing his hair, “Go piss, you fuckin’ douche.” 

“Dick,” Max tosses over his shoulder.

“Jackass.” 

“Bitch,” Max half-heartedly snipes with raised eyebrows just before the bathroom door closes. 

A laugh bursts out of Michael at that. “Yeah, yeah. Love you, too,” he says behind flipping the door the middle finger. 

Isobel’s face is all scrunched up. 

“Iz, please. If you start cryin’, then I’mma cry, and then Max is gonna cry and then Alex is gonna freak out. I would like just one day, please.”

Liz’s painted red mouth forms into a perfectly shaped ‘o.’ “Wow. You went full gentleman and scholar. You really didn’t go over to his last night, did you?”

“Nope,” he answers distractedly, too busy taking in the charming slope of Alex’s ears from this angle. 

He hadn’t gone over. He did call, though. Talked Alex through the intricacies of gravitational time dilation and precisely how gravity bends light by warping space. How it connects to them. The way Alex’s gravity pulls Michael to him like a tractor beam, makes his soul dilate and twist in a way that allows brilliant light makes its way through and paints his world in a golden hue. It’s eternal, it’s everywhere. Because he is he and they are them and they are energy and energy echoes forever. 

Alex told Michael about how he thought it was all so nice. Crying, that is all he could get out. “It is all so nice.” That Michael has a lovely voice. His favorite voice. How all he is ever wanted or wants is to just talk to him. 

Finally, Alex can pry himself from Arturo and comes over. He spends a fair amount of time exchanging kisses and hugs with Liz before Isobel sinks her claws into him. Michael feels a wave of protectiveness come over him watching Isobel slither close to his ear. But, with every whispered word, Alex seems to smile bigger. Isobel pulls back and Michael could swear, for a moment, their noses touched. 

He must be seeing things. 

“Do you mind if I sit here?” Alex asks, sliding his jacket and backpack off and motioning to the seat left empty by Max. He is wearing a very loose hoodie, his hair falling wherever it may. 

Michael’s breath catches in his throat and he shoves himself as far into the booth as he can manage. 

Alex sits down, his thigh pressed up against Michael’s. He moves to open his bag before abruptly stopping. Leaving the backpack unopened at his side, he taps Michael’s shoulder teasingly and kisses him good morning. His lips are soft and he tastes like his orange-flavored chapstick and cinnamon toothpaste. 

“Hi,” Alex sighs against his mouth, gives him another peck, and returns to his task. He retrieves his color-coded packets from his bag and takes out a handful of pens. 

Michael is just staring. Memorized by Alex’s methodical, sharp movements and the way he catches his bottom lip between his teeth. When he finally manages to break himself from his reverie of simply watching Alex’s maneuver, he looks up and sees that Liz is maintaining a neutral expression, while vibrating in her seat. 

“Yeah, yeah. Sorry, mornin’, sweetheart,” Michael finally says, a little dazed and gesturing at a plate stacked with French Toast. “That’s for you.” 

Alex usually went for oatmeal and cold coffee if he bothered to eat breakfast at all, but Michael reckons this was a special occasion. But, now looking down at the super sweet breakfast he had ordered in Alex’s stead, Michael begins to ever-so-slightly panic. He hasn’t touched his chilaquiles, ready and willing to switch out their plates at the slightest hint of disappointment on Alex’s face. 

Alex hastily finishes handing out materials and moans taking in the plate before him. He tells Liz about how he has been wanting something cinnamon and sugar covered for days, but he is shit in the kitchen with stuff like this. 

“Can I get the next one?” Alex asks his fork already half-way to his mouth. Officially marking their performance art of seduction by dismissal is finally, blessedly over. When Michael says nothing, Alex pauses, “Oh, shit. Did you wanna split it?”

“No, that’s all for you.”

Alex grins. “Thanks for ordering for me.”

“I shoulda asked—” 

“No,” Alex scolds in between bites. “It’s so fucking delicious, I would never order this for my—hey, Max.”

After wiping his hands and mouth efficiently with one napkin, Alex holds his hand out for Max to shake. Max bats his hand away and hugs him. It is so awkward and so short, Michael is positive neither man will ever go in for one with one another as long as they live. Alex’s hands hover just above Max’s shoulders and Max is pounding his closed fist into Alex’s back a touch too hard. Alex lets out a sort of embarrassed wheeze when Max lets him go. 

Flushing red, Max hastily sits. Holding his body in a very uncomfortable fashion, he half-shouts, “So, Kyle and Maria not here yet, huh?” 

“Shocking, I know,” Alex deadpans and then pointedly looks over his notes until the tension in the air leaves. Between Mr. Jones and the Alighting and Project Shephard, they have so much going on that Alex eventually had to break his cardinal rule and start writing shit down. They discuss the surface level of what they found last night but decide to save the rest for when Maria and Kyle finally do arrive. 

Alex, without breaking his concentration from Liz's story about the cat she found when she worked in Colorado, grabs Michael’s hand and placing it on his own lap, threading their fingers together. Michael only pouts a little when Alex moves his body away from Michael’s a bit later on, so that they could eat. 

Like a teenager on his first date at the movies, Michael cannot stop fidgeting. His right arm making it half around Alex before he chickens out and drops it back down. 

Alex is smiling at him again.

The need for PDA will pass sooner than later, but until then, Michael relishes in it. Soaks up the way Alex, with a confident nonchalance, loops Michael's arm over his shoulder and begins rubbing circles on his thigh under the table. 

Alex presses a firm, dry kiss to Michael’s temple. He speaks, softly but clearly into Michael’s hairline: “You look very handsome today.”

Michael just tugs on his hair and grins. 

While the rest of the group bickers, he seizes the moment of feigned privacy. Ghosting the tip of his nose along Alex’s cheek, he can feel the heat of his love’s blush as much as he sees it rising to settle on his tan, lovely skin. He runs Alex’s silky hair through his fingers until the man sinks back into his side. He lightly tugs on Alex’s strands one final time and smirks at his partner’s warning growl. 

Michael has never felt so handsome. 

**Author's Note:**

> If yah catch the Fiona Apple reference, you're a real one.
> 
> https://ndncollective.org/navajo-nation-relief-fund/


End file.
